The Silence
by equine02
Summary: He was an outcast; he knew he belonged here, but what were they saying about him? How was it that he could not understand? His pain was not theirs...but he was one of them. He fought a different war. RATED FOR INJURY, NOT GRAPHIC.
1. Nothing

**Welcome to chapter one of my third Combat! Fic. Enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own them, just messing around with em!**

Thunder cried out in the skies above, sounds similar reflected upon the scene below. Canons shot endless rounds of fire and smoke and nothing imminently visible- until the explosions happened. Then it was evident that more than just fire and smoke had come from those death machines.

Below, several men crouched into pits, hiding behind only dirt and their rifles. One man rolls on his side, checking another, who is hit in the leg. That first man doesn't carry a rifle; he's a medic.

Another man ducks lower, pushing his helmet forward to shield from flying dirt.

"Fall back! Fall back!" he screams.

Something hits his head, gashing up under his helmet across his forehead. Dazed, he stared ahead for a moment. Someone cries his name, tells him to get down. He stares ahead into a blur of fire and death, a story of his days written in blood.

He doesn't remember losing consciousness, or falling backwards.

* * *

"Keep him still, keep him still…what the devil, Gerald? I told you to keep him down! Keep him- here, never mind you take his hand, hold his hand Rossley. He needs to know you are here. Good, like that, so."

"Sir? Morphine?"

"Medic, hand me that knife, please. No more morphine, it's too soon. Thanks. Alright, hold him."

The voices were British.

"Right."

There was pain, so fast and sharp that he almost remembered nothing of it; again he blacked out.

* * *

"Lieber Gott, rette diesen Soldaten, er ist sehr schwer verwundet, und er wird sterben, du mußt ihm helfen, so daß er deinen guten Willen sehen kann, Vater, Sohn Heiliger Geist, amen." More voices, but not American. Not Britsh. He fell into a deeper, softer sleep with the peirce of a needle.

* * *

There wasn't pain. Not at first, but a numbness that faded too soon proved that the agony would not hesitate to flood his senses any moment. His vision was blurred, colors running into each other. There were only two colors that he could make out at first. White, and darker brownish black. The white was in the center, and it seemed to take on the shape of some familiar object. A person. Slowly, but surely, he knew that that was what it was. Lightning flared across his vision when he tried to open his eyes. He writhed and felt a cold feeling on the small of his back as it arched and the cold air hit the sweat gathered there. He didn't feel the hot tear sliding down his face. The pain had come.

* * *

Somebody was talking to him in German. His head lolled on the thin pillow, which hinted strongly to being not a pillow but a folded blanket. As feeling returned to his limbs he found that a hand was clasping his, tiny and feminine.

"Hello." She whispered.

Her accent was thick. German. He blinked.

"You are in a British field hospital. You are very badly hurt, and so you must stay still. I will get the water."

She lifted a glass to his lips. He gulped at it greedily like a young puppy, anxious that it would dissapear.

"How does it feel?"

"It... _feels_." he tested his voice. She smiled, stroking his hand. "You are German."

"Yes. The Germans have captured this hospital. You are American, so I speak to you in your language."

"Oh." He glanced down at himself, only to blush. He was shirtless. His dog tags stuck to his skin, and he had to peel them off. Reading the name, he frowned.

"These aren't mine. That isn't me." He told her, panicking.

"Who are you then, Soldier?"

Just then it struck him that she was the one speaking in german to him earlier, when he'd been out of it.

His face slowly changed from confusion to fear. Shock took hold of him, seizing his ability to speak. He tried to push himself up, but she eased him back down.

"Don' know." He felt like crying. Something broke inside him, images, thoughts, piled up in there, but he just couldn't _read_ them. "I don't know who I am. Oh God, who am I?"

The woman's grey eyes peered around. "Careful soldier, you should be calm."

 _Easy for her to say._

"I can't remember. I don't know who I am!" He grabbed her arm, not paying attention to whether or not he was hurting her.

"Medic!"

A man with graying brown hair and a red cross strapped to his arm came over. He ran his hand through his hair and made a grim noise of questioning.

He noticed a ring on the medic's hand. So he was married.

"This man does not know his identity."

"Oh?" Medic sat down and felt his pulse, checked his eyes. He sat, emotionless, shocked. "He has amnesia." The medic was British.

"And?"

"And nothing. There is very little we can do for him. He has to come out of it by himself. Until then, we'll sedate him so he can heal. When he wakes up we will ask him again." The man left. He was left lying on his back, limbs growing fuzzy. He hadn't felt the needle in enter his vein. And he didn't feel sleep till he was dreaming.

* * *

When he woke up there was silence. He let himself sleep again, too afraid to face the nothing.

* * *

As the days went by he learned that he had also sustained a shrapnel wound to the midsection. He told the people around him nothing. That was because he knew nothing. His brain was tired, his arms and legs, and face and hands and shoudlers and back, and every part of him was tired, forgetting. Someone gave him a mirror several days later, and he didn't stop looking at his eyes and face for a very long time. They were not his eyes. It was not his face, or hair. But those eyes, they watched him. They cried tears. Not his tears. He was nobody, for he knew nothing of what he had been. He felt that he had never been. And if he had never been, he was nobody.

* * *

The German woman flounced about the tent all day, talking to soldiers in English, German and even French. A man with small, black eyes, and a balding head often came over and spoke to him sharply in what he somehow knew was German.

But the Germans were people. What was wrong with this? He knew there was something, the way the others spoke to them and looked at them. What was wrong with the Germans? What had they done?

And why was there a war anyway? Was he on the right side? Was there a right side?

So many questions, and every time they lead to the question, who was he?

The woman, who he now identified as Lady, for she gave him no name by which to call her, gave him a title.

"Sandy."

Thats what she called him, Sandy. When he woke up, soemtimes she was there, chestnut curls gleaming, grey eyes flashing, bright lips smirking into a smile, not always so bad.

Sometimes it was the bald man. But mostly it was the Medic with the graying brown hair. He spoke softly, checking 'Sandy's' eyes. His pulse, his wound. Wounds. There were three, two physical, and the one mental. Sometimes the Medic, who was called Rossley, would sit and talk to him, gently probing his memory for signs of some recollection of his past. There was nothing.

* * *

Days passed with slow succession. Soon he could sit up and stand. Eventually, he could walk with help, and after some time he could roam about alone. In all, thirteen days had passed since he'd been brought there. The Germans, who had apparently taken over the hospital, didn't move out; German lines had moved up, past the hospital, which was an event of great consequential depression for the others. For him, well, he didn't know either side. He felt nothing. He was nothing.

She prayed for him, the Lady. In German mostly, like that first time. He knew she was praying, because always she'd cross herself at the end. It made him smile.

He learned that he had 'fine eyes' from several other people there, who often complimented him on them. _He_ didn't like them; clear, emotionless. Not his eyes. Never his eyes. What had he seen with these eyes that he couldn't remember?

Sometimes he looked at his hands, too, and studied them. What had they done? How many had they killed?

Then he looked at his feet. Where had they gone? What places?

And where would they take him?

 **Chapter 1 people! Thanks so much for reading, please take five seconds to review, it would really make my day... er, night, its 9:17 right now. See you in the next chapter, and let me know your guesses on which soldier this is!**


	2. Snow

**Hi! Just got back from the apple orchard, about to put together some Han Solo garb, so I thought I'd throw this together to fit in with my randomness!**

 **Please let me know what you think of it so far- Mystery soldier revealed in this chappy! Extra, extra, read all about it!**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own them, as much as I wish I did.**

He was sitting alone on a cot by the flap of the tent. Staring at the wideness of the milky grey sky. Clouds, like the war, were moving in. If only the squad knew….

His eyes slowly widened. The squad. Who was the squad?

Depressingly enough, that is where his revelation ended. Apart from knowing about this squad, there was nothing in his mind to go on, it was all blank greyish-white like the sky. His head pounded, and his lungs screamed from the rawness of the air. It was freezing. Where it had been warm enough for thunder and lightning what felt like only days ago- it had been two weeks since he had come here- it was now cold enough to snow. As he recovered, he began to help the medics and occasionally the doctor with their work. He found out that there were more than twenty British soldiers here not including medical staff and patients, of course, though the Germans far outnumbered them.

He found out that there was a man named Gerald, William Gerald, who had helped him when he was first brought in. Willy was a private in the infantry. They became good friends. Willy, as he was called by the others, was a tall fellow with a head of copper colored hair that was always perfectly styled, always, and a cheerful way of looking upon life. But still, rain or shine, perfect hair.

He often shook his head that even in war there was such a thing as having perfect hair days.

One thing that they both discovered was that Sandy knew his weapons. It was strange, the way he could easily hit his target with wild accuracy one moment, and bandage up a stupid German's cut-off finger the next.

Most of the injuries he learned to tend to were minor, silly things like said German's, or headaches, or cuts or bruises. Occasionally there was a bullet graze from a scouting trip, or somebody who got their foot ran over by a jeep.

As time went on he started calling himself Sandy too. Sandy was easy to remember, and it felt familiar in a strange, unfounded way. As for the Lady; he learned that she was named Auguste Neighterman, and she was called Gusty by her "Captain," who turned out to be the balding man who yelled at Sandy often.

Some people avoided him, because they thought he was "nuts."

Some people found his predicament strangely relatable and intriguing; no one knew who they were or should be in war. They all spoke to him about his amnesia with quiet, gentle voices, as if they were afraid he would crack.

Only Rossley didn't. The medic asked him what he could remember, but like any man should, left him alone after that. There was no point in asking a dead man how he died, after all. Well, that's how Sandy saw it.

So instead he spent long days like this one, watching the camp go about its everyday life with surprising smoothness, despite being under capture.

It had begun to snow, big soft flakes that floated loftily down, ignoring the war and every person they landed on. Sandy stood up and walked out of the tent slowly. His face was turned to the sky, his arms spread out wide, palms up. He smiled.

It reminded him of home. _Home._ Home! His mind fell back into a time and place so familiar for seconds…. And instantly closed its doors to the past. He was left standing cold and alone, in a camp of what he suddenly _knew_ was the enemy, though how he could never say.

* * *

The night of that first snow was miserable. The cold seeped through the thin walls of the tent and made him shiver wildly. Rossley helped him lay down from his half-sleeping position by another soldiers bed. The soldier had a bad bullet wound to the chest, and had been brought in only hours ago. Sandy hadn't left his side since.

Rossley covered him in a blanket, but he stirred.

"Uh," he mumbled, trying to roll onto his side, wincing at the soreness. "S'lder."

"Hmm?"

"S'lder." His eyes flicked over the Medic's figure, searching for answers.

"He's alright, Sandy. Go to sleep."

"Yessir." He gave a short smile, "Don't sedate me." He closed his eyes after giving his sarcastic quip. The medic smiled. Sandy was a rare one.

* * *

Caje's face contorted into a grimace. He felt a moan rising in the back of his throat, and didn't try to contain it. Lord above, if this wasn't painful he didn't know what was. His chest felt like it had been cut open, stuffed with cotton, and closed up. He hacked up a little blood, and instantly felt the soothing pressure of a hand behind his head, and a glass on his lips. He spat out the rest of the awful taste and let himself sink lower into a half sleep. The patrol… he had to tell them _something_ about how it went wrong.

A familiar voice carved the night air into something familiar, a memory from what felt like yesterday, one that made his eyes fill with tears, and his heart feel heavy.

There was a man above him. He had scruffy brown-grey hair and sleep-deprived eyes.

"Sandy," he called, "Morphine. Your soldier has woken up."

Another man came into his view, looking down on him as if her were a priceless, never before seen artifact.

"Sarge?" he gasped, breathing out heavily. He felt something stick sharply into his arm. His thoughts began to run like pudding. "S'rge? Y're 'live." Slowly his eyes shut.

"Sandy? Do you know him…" Rossley paused to read the soldier's dog tags, "Eh, Paul Lemay?"

"No. I don't. But it's strange it's…. it's like I had a dream about him, or, or, I saw him someplace else. Some other time." Sandy said slowly. His head was hurting from all the blank circles he was running in.

"He seems to know you." He paused, his cultured accent sounding nice to Sandy's hurting ears, "You are both from the same squad, Sandy. Does the name Chip mean anything to you?"

He glanced down at his tags, then the soldier's. "No. I just don't- I don't remember him. Or anyone named Chip. I don't remember anyone."

"Nothing? Rossley looked sad when Sandy turned up blank. "Well, you should get some sleep. Perhaps tomorrow will bring some light to the subject."

"Yeah."

"Goodnight, Sandy."

"Goodnight. Doc."

He barely realized he'd called the man "Doc." It sounded so right, so nice. Comforting. Like something he'd heard before.

He wanted to believe what Doc had said, but that soldier, Paul Lemay- his face wouldn't stop haunting his mind. Perhaps he knew him. In a different time, place. In another life.

 **Sorry it's so short guys! Thanks for reading, hope you liked it, even though I wasn't super happy with it. From here out it's all about the journey back to remembering. Not sure when the next update will be, but keep your eyes peeled, should be soon. Lots of reviews, people! I love hearing from you**


	3. Something

**Hi guys, sorry for the wait. Been super busy doing all sorts of things, but here it is, super long for all you out there who actually take the time and like long chapters! Enjoy!**

 **And now, special thanks to these reviewers- you guys keep me going!**

 **~Sgt. Saunders143**

 **~Churchlady63**

 **~AliasCWN**

 **~And of course, one anonymous guest….**

 **I couldn't write this without you guys, thanks so much! And for Sgt. Saunders143 whenever you read this, I hope you enjoy! This will be done soon, so you can read it beginning to end!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own them… any of them…. not even our Sarge. Is that a tear I feel? Oh, Saunders. (promptly faints)**

 **Enjoy people!**

* * *

Caje woke slowly. He felt his fingertips tingling at first, and something was tugging him to the surface. Anonymous, mysterious, but it was where he wanted to be. There was only so much a man could stand before he needed to stretch out of the darkness back into the living. He came out of the darkness with his chest heaving.

"W-ater." Was the first thing he croaked. Moving his arm, he found and IV to be attached to it, and let his eyes wander up to the bottle of plasma hanging above. Patrol. How long ago…. He didn't remember, only that he hurt so badly, and his throat felt like a New Orleans afternoon in summer. During a drought.

Somebody's hand eased under his head and helped him drink. At first he gulped at the precious water greedily; it must have been _months_ since he'd last tasted water so good. His canteen had long been empty when the squad hit the German lines…. No they hadn't been up front, had they? It had been a patrol, a little one. Only Caje, Littlejohn, Kirby and a replacement, Barnes.

They'd gotten out alright, he remembered. There was a lot of yelling on his part, telling them to get word back to base. He'd felt his blood all over himself in that moment. He knew he was going to die. He _knew_ it. So why was he alive? And Saunders… right now Saunders was talking to him…Caje was ignoring him. But it was okay to ignore ghosts, wasn't it? It had been what felt like forever since Saunders had been declared missing in action. He was most likely dead. So why was he slapping Caje's face?

"Soldier! You hear me? Still in there?" Saunders's eyes flashed suspiciously. "You alright? You look pretty grey. Hey Nurse, over here, this guy's a prettier color than the sky outside." He set down the glass of water while Caje just coughed in surprise.

"Saund- "he was shushed by a tall woman in British uniform. She was very pretty, with curly brown hair and almost iridescent grey eyes.

"Quiet, Soldier, you'll tear your stitches. Now here, lie still." She gestured for Saunders to hold Caje's hand so she could inject the morphine. When Caje realized what was happening he started bucking and writhing.

"No don't! Don't- don't put me under!" He had the warm sensation like when cooling coffee was spilled down your front, only a lot more, and thicker. "Don't, please don't!"

"Barnaby, Dun, come over here!" Saunders called. Caje's eyes were wide with fear and confusion. Lord above, his chest _burned_. He tried to wriggle away from the hands. "Hold him down. Easy, easy. Don't move, Soldier." Caje didn't like that. He didn't like being called "soldier" by the man who always used his nickname.

"Saunders- Sarge- "he tried again, but felt the stab of a needle piercing his vein. He flinched and gave his Sergeant a betrayed look. "…. Sarge…. missing…."

His eyes rolled up in his head, but before that, he heard Saunders say to the nurse, "Poor guy, he's nutty." And that was all there was to be said.

* * *

Sandy ran a hand through his hair. Why was 'Sergeant Saunders' such a darn familiar name? _Must be one of the wounded men here,_ he figured. Slowly standing, he rolled his shoulders and was rewarded with a satisfying pop as he worked out the kinks. He'd been sitting with that soldier since sunrise. God knew what the man had been through, and if it had been anything like his experience… well, his side was still healing, and though he was allowed to walk around, sometimes the cramps were so bad at night that morphine was required to help him sleep. Nightmares, too, guarded the gateway to any real rest, and so it seemed that until he was fully recovered, he'd have to resort to other means to find sleep.

The tall nurse, who he learned was named Olivia, ordered him to lay down for a while, as he was really quite awful looking at the moment.

"I can't really believe you're all well, Sergeant." She told him, guiding him onto a cot.

He groaned when the angle pulled at his wound, "Sergeant?" he glanced down at his jacket. There were those stripes, sure enough. "Oh."

"Yes. Now go to sleep." She paused a minute, looking uncomfortably at a German guard with a rifle, standing next to the cot, staring at them. "Well, try."

As he watched her leave, Sandy got an idea. He really wanted a cigarette. Turning to the guy next to him, whose left eye was bandaged heavily, and who also clenched the desired item between yellowing teeth, he asked, "Do you have a…."

"Sure kiddo." He tossed him another from the depths of his pocket. "Need a light?"

"No I should have one. Thanks." I glanced down at himself, hoping he did in fact possess a lighter, and decided to try his jacket's pockets first. Instantly his hand hit something. But not a lighter. A folded piece of paper, singed and battle-weary, but a letter.

Feeling sinfully curious, he opened it.

Dear Chip,

We miss you terribly. Your brother Chris has gone and done an awful thing. He's gotten a job at that nasty man, Mr. Konnor, at _his_ farm. Can you imagine? I need him here. To help me. Thought I suppose it _is_ better than him quitting school to enlist…

Louise and her cats are fine. Yes, I know you worry about her. Don't fret, the boys are staying away- so far at least, and she's even begun to creep out of her shell and see the world beyond her feline companions. I hope she'll come out of this phase before you come home, I really do.

It makes me miss you all the more…

Oh, Chip. You ought to see my roses… the first snow came yesterday, and they're all covered. You know, it's rather pretty. It looks like one of Grandma Emily's doilies- do you remember her? You were only a young boy when she died, but she made the best doilies, and the finest mulberry jam this side of the world!

I miss you most of everybody here I think. It's been very lonely around the house, all by myself but for your sister and occasionally Chris. But we've grown apart in a way any mother dreads. I miss your father on days like this one, when the world is all covered in ice and snow. He loved the winter, so very much. You know, he used to tell me that he liked overcast days better than sunny ones, and when I asked him why, he laughed and patted my hand and said, 'Well, dear, it's because the world looks bigger…. The sky, like a blank canvas so that any master can paint on it. And there are no shadows." That's what he liked best. He thought war was like a shadow, hinting around every turn, taking away our lights. It took away mine, Chip. All of them.

Well, now you've heard me out, and I am glad you have; I've wanted so much to say all this to Louise, but she is too young, and Chris would hardly understand. On to better thoughts, however, so I must tell you, I will be expecting to hear anything and everything from you about life "over there."

I miss you very much and hope you are safe,

Love,

Mother

Sandy's brown furrowed in exhaustion. It felt wrong reading this letter, though it only made sense it was his. Who was this woman? Who was Louise…. or Chris? Or Grandma Emily?

His cigarette lay dead and forgotten beside him. All he remembered was dreaming about a girl who lived with cats, a boy who was needed far more than he knew... And a woman who wished her son could be there, with her, when she felt alone.

* * *

His eyes were glued shut until something very soft and warm- and wet- was placed over them, rubbing away the grit.

"Où est ... ce que ... Est-ce que ... "Caje started in French. His mind quickly switched tracks, and he tried again, "Sarge?" he blinked at the blinding white light. The tent flaps were open, revealing a striking contrast of white coating the ground, and the green of the trees, up to the grey sky, heavy with more snow.

"I'm afraid not." It was the same nurse from before, the one with dark brown hair and large, silver-grey eyes, who was tall as they come. She pulled the blankets up further over his bare shoulders. "They'll close those in a minute… they're bringing in two more men." She gestured to the flaps. "I'm sorry about earlier. You were a bit out of it."

"Mmmm." He squeezed his eyes shut, "Where's Sergeant Saunders?"

"I- I'm not sure. Do you mean Sandy?" she pointed to a sleeping figure across the room, whose face was too familiar to ignore. He almost leapt out of his cot.

"Yes, that's Chip Saunders! He's my squad leader. Is he hurt? Why is there a German near his bed!?"

"Your squad leader? Well he doesn't seem to remember you." She seemed confused, "He's worn down to the bones, though. Came in here with some pretty impressive amounts of Kraut shrapnel in him, but he's long down the road to recovery." Caje processed this.

"What about the German?" he asked again.

"This camp was captured weeks ago. It's a wonder the Nazis are holding it down, we just keep getting more and more wounded Americans and British, and they just keep getting better, enough that with weapons…. maybe we could take out those Germans." There was raw excitement in her eyes, but when she realized how reckless she sounded, the nurse sobered. "You know," she lowered her voice, as if it were some great secret she was going to tell the wounded man, "Sandy sat up all night with you, and he didn't even complain of being tired. You must be some great soldier if you are who you say."

"Well didn't Sarge tell you who I am?" Caje, weak, closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of feet walking past, water dripping, and hushed voices.

"Oh." The nurse paused, "Well Sandy hasn't told us anything about himself yet."

"What do you mean?"

"You weren't aware?" Her British accent was lulling him to sleep until he heard the next words, "Sandy's got amnesia. He doesn't even know who _he_ is."

* * *

Sandy woke up with a screaming headache. The dreams- why the dreams? He felt worse than when he'd lay down.

Glancing up at the Soldier across from him, to whom a brunet nurse was speaking.

"Doesn't remember?" he heard the weak reply from the Soldier.

"No, I'm afraid not. Will you excuse me for a moment, Private? Your Sergeant has woken up."

The nurse made her way across the tent, but was stopped several feet short of the bed by the Lady, aka Auguste Neighterman. The woman's cold eyes bore into the other's sharp grey ones.

"What are you doing?" the heavy accent gave her an appearance of suspiciousness.

"The man needs his stitches checked. They are coming out any day now- "

"He's been up and walking for weeks; why hasn't this been done before?"

"Well, I'm sorry, but you cannot rush healing. Excuse me, Lieutenant, while I tend to him."

Sandy watched the exchange through sleepy eyes as Auguste finally stalked off. His head was throbbing horribly every time he moved it, and his side felt pretty bad too. Maybe he'd rolled on it while he was sleeping… he felt the cooling hands of the nurse as she felt his forehead.

"Why- "he started to ask.

"You look feverish." She glanced up at him, "You know, it's not impossible to overwork yourself, Sandy."

"What else am I supposed to do? Just...remember who I am?"

"That'll come in its own time, I'm sure. For now, you need rest, and perhaps then you can work on remembering. The stitches should come out by the end of the week." She threw a look over her shoulder at Caje, who was watching them talk. Instead, she was met with the sight of Rossley.

"I can take over, Carol. Good work, go take a break."

Sandy smiled at her weakly, trying to fight his headache without the medic noticing and instantly giving him a pain-killer. Rossley turned to his full attention to him, "Now, Sandy, there is an example of a hypocrite, in the worst way. Here she is, telling you not to overwork yourself, and yet there she goes, checking on your buddy over there when I'm sure I distinctly told her to go fill herself with as much coffee as is healthy."

He said it loud enough for her to hear, and she smiled, replying with, "Those were not your orders, Kirk. You said to take a break. And I'm taking a break over here. With this handsome fellow." Caje offered her his best dashing smile, despite his condition.

"Kirk?" Sandy asked, "Is that your first name?"

"Yes. I was going to be 'June', but as you can see, that didn't work out. My mother was a bit disappointed she didn't get her little girl. I was the next best thing I suppose, and certainly more exciting for my father. Anyhow, enough about all that. How are you feeling?"

"Like I got run over by every Kraut in Europe." Saunders admitted. He didn't want to; pain was rarely something he liked to submit to easily. But this was a _really_ bad headache.

"Well it wouldn't be the first time for anyone in here, would it?" the medic checked his pulse, eyes, and wound.

"Well, several things are off here Sandy. For one, you're tired. Very, very tired."

"I hadn't noticed," he quipped dryly.

"Second," he continued, ignoring the antics of the American, "you are still recovering- "Sandy opened his mouth, but Rossley held up his hand, "- I wouldn't care if you felt well enough to go build a snowman- your body is still in shock over the blood loss, the intrusion of a foreign object entering into it. It's a miracle you can even sit up."

"Yeah, well, I heal fast."

"Well, Ducky, so it seems with all you Yanks. It's all 'go, go, go' don't stop till we fall over dead." He shook his head, "Idiots." But it was a gentle jest, true to a medic's nature. "And third, you are _extremely_ dehydrated. You know, there is water here for a reason, and it's not for looking at your reflection in. Nice as that sounds," he added under his breath, running a hand through his dirty hair.

"You know, Rossley, you could be a doctor. You should be a doctor." Sandy gave him an innocent grin.

"Kill the compliments, Sergeant, and stop acting like a damn fool. I may just be a medic now, but I know this much: you could die from any one of these things if you leave them for too long. You ought not to think of others so much that you forget about yourself."

"Oh that's Sarge all right," Added in Caje from across the room. He didn't sound much better than before, but encouraged that at lease Saunders's personality was unchanged, "He'd go days without food so long as the rest of the men ate. He'd take every patrol in our place for days if we were wounded, any of us."

Rossley turned from Sandy to Caje, and back again. "Well, you sound like quite a chap in your other life. Any of that self-sacrificial nonsense ring a bell for you?"

"No." After some thought, "But it seems my Mother trusts me enough to pour her heart out over a letter that had a very small chance of ever landing in my hands."

"How's that?"

"Here, take a looksee. I don't care." He handed over the wrinkled sheet.

The Medic's eyes scanned the paper, and he whistled. "Wow. Did you know you are missed?"

"Oh, she only mentions it three times."

"Four."

"Four times." Sandy shrugged. "I don't remember anything, anyone like that. And I guess my name is Chip, though I don't remember that either. Maybe I read someone else's letter?"

"No, it's addressed to 'Sgt. Chip Saunders.' That's you, says it on your tags." The British medic handed him the paper, "You can look for yourself if you don't believe me."

He did, and sure enough, that's what it said.

"Well, who's that?" He pointed to Caje.

"' _That'_ says his name is- "

"I know his name; I mean who is he?" Saunders's set about lighting his cigarette. The Medic quickly snatched it away.

"Smoke is the last thing a dehydrated person needs, you idiot." He chided, but in a ridiculously calm way. "To answer your other question, he says he's from your squad. They-or you, or both possibly- call him Caje, and apparently you are his Commanding Officer under a Lieutenant Hanley. He came to before while you were sleeping. It was a little slurred, but we got that much out of him."

"Forgive me." The Cajun blushed across the room. The Nurse, Carol, let off her own pink hue.

"No need, it's perfectly normal." Rossley turned back to Sandy. "So it this is all what we think, you're with K Company. And it also means they probably think you're dead."

There was a long moment of silence.

"Sandy?" Rossley glanced at the man, who was still laying down on his back. His face contorted briefly, as if he were in pain, and he clutched his side with renewed agony. Rossley grabbed his hand and squeezed it, "What's the matter? Tell me where it's hurting? Where are you hurting, Sandy?"

Sandy looked up sharply. He was shaking, and sweat dripped down his temple like tears. His voice was weak, and his breaths shallow as he slowly met Rossley's eyes.

"I just remembered something."

 **Dun Dun Dunnn!**

 **Tune in next time to see what Sandy- er, Saunders- remembers! Thank you so much for reading, and any and all reviews are appreciated! See you in the next chapter**


	4. Remembered

**Here's my update! Special thanks to my fav reviewers, esp. Sgt. Saunders143 and Churchlady63, and AliasCWN. You guys are just the best, thanks so much for sticking with me, even though I am probably the only person in the world with author's notes this long. (Laughs sheepishly.) FIY, I ate too much chocolate again today, so I'm super hyped. Yesterday I ate max seven bars… well, today I probably ate more like twelve. I'm such a weird person.**

 **Okay, so this chapter is going to be interesting, I hope… little fun fact, I write my author's notes** ** _before_** **I write the story, sometimes editing certain parts if something changes- meaning, right now, I have no idea what I'm doing…. haha…. well…. yes. I have a slight idea, so bear with me here. Welcome to chapter 4 everybody, sorry for the wait, but I hope it's worth it.**

 **Disclaimer: Seriously? You honestly** ** _think_** **I own this? As much as I wish that were true, I do not. I do own the plot of the story thought… and Rossley. And the nurse. Yup. Lucky me. No Saunders. But still, lucky me. Now think serious thoughts. Here comes some heavy duty 'the-author-is-craving-emotional-whump' stuff. I do apologize in advance, people. Here we go!**

"I remember something."

Caje almost fell out of bed. "What?!"

Carol gave him a sharp, chastising look and pushed him back down. "Men!" She muttered.

"What do you remember?" Rossley stepped forward, setting down a roll of bandages. He ran a hand through his hair, a habit which was oddly soothing. Sandy was quiet for such a long time, Rossley would have thought he'd died if the man wasn't pushed up onto his elbows.

Sandy's brilliant blue eyes were glazed, and they darted back and forth almost unnoticeably. But the medic saw. He'd seen that look before, the look of thought. Deep, impenetrable thought, the kind that kept you awake at night even if you hadn't slept for a week. The same kind he'd had when he'd received the information that the father he'd known his whole life wasn't really his, all those years ago, back in England. He hadn't been completely devastated at first, just shocked. He never shed a tear over it, though the scar had remained a deep one, a symbol of a wound that could never heal, though it was one he didn't let others see, he knew it was there, on his heart.

"Sandy?" he leaned down, never taking his eyes off the confused face of a man who didn't know his purpose.

It was when Sandy began to shake, and his battle-worn face creased into a sob, only then did Rossley help him lay down. Sandy curled into a ball like a child might, sobbing and shaking with an immeasurable element of his humanity. Until this moment, Sandy had just been Sandy, the helpful, identity-lacking soldier, who didn't hesitate to share the knowledge he had left, but worked with determination to regain everything he'd lost- No matter how scary it might be.

Rossley felt that tingle in his chest that meant heartbreak for this man, for someone who could have been a brother to him, who had given himself to the work that had been placed before him, despite his injury. Kirk Rossley couldn't count the nights Sandy had sat with dying men, men he'd never met before, but had witnessed their darkest hour. The moment before they were free from the world- all that pain having vanished. Holding their hand.

So, that is what Rossley did. Oh, _Sandy_ wasn't dying. But something had hurt him so badly that the part that had made him the man Rossley knew… that part was dead.

* * *

"How is he?" Caje asked softly. The Cajun lay awake, though it was late at night, and watched his friend with determination to help him somehow, even if he couldn't talk to him. Earlier that day, Caje had begged to be moved across the room so that he could keep an eye on 'The Sarge.' The orderlies had helped him across the room, and in no time, he was speaking softly to the other man, who, despite all efforts, didn't stir from his misery.

"He is sleeping." Rossley sat down on a crate in between the two men. "I gave him a shot a few minutes after I gave one to you. Speaking of which, how do you feel?"

"Rough." The Cajun grimaced, "it isn't exactly pleasant being shot with German metal."

"I'm sure it isn't, not even with American metal," chuckled Rossley, "But you're tough. You'll pull through."

"And Saunders?"

Rossley turned to the other sleeping soldier, and took in the sight of Sandy resting on his uninjured side. The man looked much older than twenty-five. He was made old by war. From a life running, and killing, and running away from being killed. Perhaps it was a blessing he'd forgotten those things for as long as he had. The Germans still held a tight noose of patrols around the camp, and any day something could change. Sandy's ignorance of their killing mindset was not all bad. From what he'd seen of this remarkable soldier, he didn't like to watch the innocent die, or to see the carnage that one man's selfishness had brought. One man.

Caje's question was repeated, louder, "What about Saunders? Will he 'pull through?'"

"Sandy is a strong man. You can tell… when you look at his eyes. What he's seen…. it's unfathomable." The Britt sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Has he died yet?"

"No." Caje replied quizzically. He knew there was appoint to this…

"No, not physically." Rossley agreed, looked up at Caje, "but every time he watches someone die, he dies with them. When you fell asleep, he told me what he remembered."

Caje's gaze sharpened noticeably.

"He had a kid brother. Named Joey, and he said…. Joey died, when he was just a boy."

Caje didn't have words to express the emotion he was feeling. His eyes dropped to his hands.

"When Sandy was twelve his Father died, and he took over being the man of the house till he went off to war. Said his Mother has never been the same since… he has another brother in the war, and one at home, and a sister."

"I-um, Sarge never talked much about his family. We always assumed he had someone, he got letters just the same as the rest of us." Caje was uncomfortably quiet. The sound of bandages rustling could be heard… after all, a hospital never slept. "He had his bad days, days when we knew something was wrong. One time we got this replacement, just a kid… he died the first day, and Sarge never talked about him again. We, uh, well, Hanley told us later that the kid was Sarge's kid brother's friend."

"He seems to have lost a lot." The medic said thoughtfully. There were things he would never understand, war, death. The need to see blood shed to believe troubles could be resolved. Men became mice on the field, obsolete in value and only pawns to a greater purpose they'd never see…

On the other cot, Sandy shivered. He was covered in a sheen of sweat; his fingers twitched in semi-consciousness, and his eyes moved beneath their lids. Rossley turned to him and lay a hand on his brow. Sandy was in a cold sweat, shaking. Dreaming.

"Hey, Sandy. Sandy, come on chap, come out of it!" he shook the man's shoulder. Before the medic could react, Sandy bolted upright, and their faces were inches apart.

Sandy's pupils were dilated. He blinked. "It's real, isn't it?"

The medic didn't answer, but let the younger man bury his face into his shoulder. The medic allowed it to rest there for longer than he could remember, holding the embrace, on hand on Sandy's light hair, ruffing it gently. Like a friend might do.

Like a brother would.

 **Well, there it is. Tears anyone? no? I didn't cry- probably cause I have a sugar high, and I'm super happy right now. Hope you liked it, and if you did, drop me a review! I may not be able to answer, since my profile's answering thing has been a bit glitchy, but we'll see. Since the last chapter was pretty long, I made this one shorter, hope you don't mind. Also, I have to go help make blueberry pancakes…. I'll try to update soon!**

 **Have a nice day/night/evening, everyone!**


	5. Blood

**Hi!**

 **Wi-fi has been spotty, so I'm sorry this is late, I couldn't get online to post this. I hope everyone can forgive me (including you, Saunders, because I've kept you suffering endlessly for so long! And you, Caje, who has probably been sleeping this whole time… whoops.)**

 **Anyway, please R &R, you know, it feeds the muses, and might just keep this story coming. Thank you so much for the support I've had so far, and every review, fav, and follow I get gets me jumping with excitement. One reader (please forgive me, I don't remember which, but you know who you are, so this is for you! And as I said, Wi-fi has been bad, so I can't check until it's fixed so I can post this.) anyway, one reader wanted some Caje-comforting-Saunders/Sandy going on in the next chapter. There will also be some Rossley thoughts in the beginning, so…. enjoy, and make Saunders happy by supporting me! Hahaha, I'm so selfish. WARNING: there is some blood in this chapter, and some action involving guns. Don't like, don't read, okey dokey? SORT OF SPOILERS: Also, minor character death.**

 **Disclaimer: I haven't been shopping for any Combat characters lately, so no, I don't own them.**

As the nights grew colder, the Germans grew restless. It had been a miracle they'd held this camp as long as they had- but American lines were pushing forward again, and soon they would be here. As much as the British doctors wished, they knew it would be impossible for any allied troops to take back the camp without bloodshed.

Every day, Rossley doubted more and more that it would actually happen. Things had become uncertain, and the sky seemed to lower with its abundance of clouds, giving warning for the greater hardships to come. Rossley was no soldier, but he'd seen enough of war to know that snow would only make it harder- harder to bring in men and equipment, and harder for them to keep it there. However, there was always a hope that a miracle could occur.

Auguste Neighterman went on with her sly interrogations, using every technique to achieve something that Rossley could only guess. Sometimes she'd talk to the newer men, but mostly she sat with Sandy, holding his hand, pretending to pray for him when he was asleep due to sedation, which was his punishment for overworking. She'd sit there waiting for some sign he was going to wake, usually to impatient to wait until it happened. Her impatience was with a purpose, though what was anyone's guess. Often she would disappear into 'Her Captain's' tent, and not come out for hours. Rossley watched all of this with the skilled eyes of one who had seen so much, yet knew so little about German operations. Here it was, a whole segment of their enemy, right here! If any one of them escaped they could relay information such as numbers, characteristics, positions, possible future actions. But every time there was a chance, when a soldier recovered and even had thoughts of escaping, he'd be taken away and not seen again. Where they were taking them, the medic had no idea. He'd tried not to make too much of the situation obvious to Sandy, but though he had amnesia, he was still a grown man, and would probably end up finding out anyway. After overworking himself, Sandy's emotional state had only worsened. He could move about a little now, but at the end of the day, he was always exhausted, his usually bright blue eyes dulled and glassy with fatigue. He often sat down, looking dizzy and tired. As much as Rossley didn't like to see the man suffer, it was better that he was sedated often, that way Auguste couldn't question him, he wouldn't make a full recovery, and thus wouldn't be taken to wherever it was the other men went to. God, when the war was over, perhaps he would settle down and start a postcard business or something trivial like that. Anything was better than this- wishing a man would stay unwell so that he could stay alive.

Days became weeks, stretching interminably to meld into a greater picture, one which seemed to tell a story of dark days to come.

Caje began to regain his strength with slow sureness. Rossley knew from watching him that beneath his soldierly mask he was a gentle man, who cared deeply for his comrade, even if that feeling was not returned due to Sandy not remembering the man. There were nights when Sandy would be haunted by nightmares of his dead brother- the only thing he knew from his past- and days which were bordered with patrols of Germans, and many uncertainties. Through all of them, the Cajun seemed to hold a special friendship with those whom he found to be in some way kindred to his own spirit. This excluded most Germans, except one soldier who'd been bitten by a rabid dog, and was dying. The guy was more like a kid, shaking and in pain, waiting for his time to come, scared to death of death itself. Caje often sat with him, bathing his brow and talking. Once or twice Rossley caught Sandy staring at them, seeming to recall a piece of his past which lay broken in his mind, even if just for a second.

* * *

Sandy would often lay awake at night if not sedated, translucent eyes gleaming against soft candlelight. Caje watched him on those nights.

Once in a while, Sandy would eventually close his eyes and drift restlessly, but almost nights were spent purely awake, and one such night, Caje found himself feeling a strange pressure to keep vigil over his Sergeant.

Eventually Sandy noticed and turned his head to stare softly at the scout. "What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing." Caje stared at the tent's ceiling. Sandy copied him. "Well, actually, there is something."

"Tell me." Sandy folded his arms across his chest and burrowed under his covers, "go on."

Caje smiled at the familiar accent which made "on" sound like "o-en."

"Well, Sarge," he kept his gaze firmly on the white canvas, afraid to lose his nerve, "I remember a night like this one. Feels like a dream ago now, but it was so real then. Nobody could sleep. Billy- Private Billy Nelson, he's part of the squad- he'd taken shrapnel to the side. It was very bad. You gave him to the Krauts."

Sandy jerked slightly. Either he was cold, or Caje's words had hit a part of Sandy that wasn't used to being hit.

"You gave him to the Krauts so he could live. He was out of it, yellin' all sorts of things, wanting to go dancing with his sweetheart. There was this Kraut hospital, and it was the only way. I'll never forget how sore Littlejohn was about that."

"Littlejohn?"

"Yeah… he's from the Squad too. Billy's buddy. He's always picking up Billy's gear when he drops it. And we're always cooking in his helmet… teasing him about things, stuff like that." Caje smiled, and Sandy glanced over at him, somehow managing to share the expression. God, how the Cajun had missed that rarity. Perhaps this Sandy smiled more than Saunders had. "But," he sobered, "after the Krauts took him in, and we were still pinned down…nobody slept. It wasn't that there weren't enough of us to take watch, just we couldn't seem to sleep thinking that one of ours was hurt badly, with the krauts. Littlejohn didn't eat anything that night."

"Sounds like something he'd-" Sandy stopped.

Caje's eyes focused onto Sandy's face.

"….I just mean, the way you explain… how he took care of-" he grappled for words, finally falling silent.

"Sarge?"

"Hmm."

"I don't blame you because you can't remember. I think someday soon maybe you'll remember something and-" he tried again, "It isn't-"

Sandy never heard what Caje was saying because that moment of quiet was destroyed with the sound of a grenade going off across the camp. _An American grenade_ , thought Caje. _They're here._

Another blast hit close to the tent, and the last thing he saw was Sandy flying through the air. Then he slept.

* * *

"Sergeant. Sergeant!" he shook the man's shoulder.

Sandy felt himself slowly gliding through consciousness. _Sergeant. Sergeant…._

His mind mentally flinched, _Shut up, Kirby._

Like a bullet he flew upright, whacking into Caje. They were both breathing hard. Sandy was dazed for a moment.

Across his mind's eye flashed a series of scenes…. His own voice in his head- " _Shut up, Kirby." Crying from grown men. "Fall back! Fall back!" screaming missiles, blood. "I'm not coming down! We took this hill!" Fire. Bullets. "The way I figure it, this war isn't gonna last long…" Two endless, deep blue eyes, sad. Lonely, tired. "He's dead sir." Only pain. "I gave you an order, Soldier, and this time you'd better follow it!"_

 _…A kid laughing. Just a kid. A kid with a rifle, and a child-like smile. A bigger man next to him. Laughing. "Billy…"_

"Sergeant!" Caje almost clipped Saunders's face with his hand, trying to get him to snap to. The man was trembling.

After a long time, "Huh?"

"Sarge…you, it's-" Caje swallowed, "You were dreaming," he said sounding uncertain. There was blood on his temple, "I think…." All of the sudden, Caje realized and shouted, "We have to get out of here!" He sagged under the dizziness he felt, legs refusing to move, chest burning.

Sandy looked up very slowly. His eyes gathered the features of the soldier before him, and his mind spelled the name. Caje. "Dreaming?" He frowned in a strange, lonely way. "Was I?"

His voice was smothered in the sound of bullets. Half the tent was gone, and several German soldiers were hauling the wounded out of bed, dragging them behind any kind of cover. The nurse, Carol, who had been so kind and gentle, lay dead, sprawled over the body of another wounded man whom she had tried to save from being dragged away from the Germans. They wanted bargaining tools. Sandy stood up quickly and felt ashes falling out of his hair. The roof of the tent above them was on fire, and little feathery strips of charred fabric floated lazily through the chaos. Grabbing the hand of the Cajun, he took off running. Sandy could feel Caje stumbling along behind him, and didn't bother to look back. American lines, American lines.

That was all he could think until he ran smack-dab into Auguste Neighterman. He stumbled, and when he finally regained his balance, he realized she was holding a pistol to Rossley's head. Blood ran out of the corner or medic's mouth, like he'd been punched, and in his arms, lay a limp burden- the German boy who was dying of rabies.

"You make one move to get to your lines, and I will kill him!" Her perfect face glowed against the glare of fire. It wasn't perfect now.

It didn't feel right to stand so tall in a spray of bullets. Sandy felt exposed in the worst way as, slowly, Auguste's other hand drew around against Rossley's neck, holding another pistol, which pointed at the boy, "Both of them."

Sandy's head suddenly gave a jolt. He almost cried out, pushing his hands against his temples. _"I will only repeat the order once, then I will shoot…." Searing pain, in his leg. Unbelievable agony. He writhed and rolled away from Doc and that German monster… "Doc! Doc! He's dead…"_ Sandy collapsed to his knees. _That look in those azure eyes… that shock at taking a life… "I'm wounded, Doc. Help me."_

His vision flashed white, and suddenly the world became a brilliant array of colors and sounds. The pressure behind his eyes was unfathomable. One swift movement and he was off his knees and launching himself at that woman. Caje caught him and held him back.

"No! She'll kill them!"

"Listen to him, Sergeant." She cocked both pistols, grey eyes glinting like a cat's, "I wouldn't try anything if I were you."

"Don't listen Sandy! She won't do it!" Rossley shouted desperately.

The pistol fired and Rossley dropped the boy in shock. He lay dead on the ground, a puddle of his own blood soaking the snow beneath him. It looked almost black with the backlighting of explosions. The medic couldn't take his eyes off the body.

"You see, Sergeant, I will not hesitate to kill him." She stepped over the dead soldier, forcing Rossley forward. "Your decision. Do you remember now?"

"Remember what?" He screamed, disgusted at the barbarity of this woman. The air was nauseating, blood and smoke. He was choking on his own spit.

"The orders, you idiot. You know where King Company is going! You know their strength! You know everything!"

"How do you know that?" he gasped. Suddenly it made sense. The squad. He'd wanted to tell the squad where they were. _Hanley…._ Hanley… Lieutenant…. He'd told him where they were going, how they were going to take out this very rat's nest of Germans. Tanks, artillery? The answer was tickling the back of his mind. How did Auguste know? He voiced his question, frozen in the grip of Caje, who seemed to waver on his feet.

"Sergeant," she smiled a slow, disgusting smile, "who do you think saved you from the hands of your enemies and brought you here? I saved your life."

 **What will happen now?**

 **Thanks for reading, and please drop me a review. Sorry for any mistakes, I'm really tired right now. For some reason this chapter was so much fun to write, not sure why, maybe because I got to torture people in it…? Just finished watching a Bonanza episode called "The Avengers," co-starring Vic Morrow- and he has really neat brown hair! He plays such a cool character, give it a watch, you can find it on Youtube, he's even got a slight fake western accent, but don't let that turn you off. He's super gentle, but with some surprising gun-drawing skills. Anyway, thanks again, and I hope to post soon so I don't leave our guys standing out in the snow forever. Brrrr. Poor fellows. Heads up, next chapter will be the final, but if you guys like it, I can write a short epilogue. Please tell me your thoughts, we (as in, me and Saunders. After all, this affects him greatly.) would like to know what you'd like to see! Au Revoir!**


	6. Goodbye

**Hello again! You guys are such lucky people, 2 chapters in one day, even if this one is short, and I didn't especially like it. Felt rushed to me. Anyway, this is the farewell chapter for The Silence:'( By the way, if any of you are wondering why it's called that, it's because in Sandy/Saunders's mind there was a void of any knowledge of who and what he was. An absence of memories. Do you ever lay awake at night and imagine voices, things you've said, and things other people said to you? They elicit emotions. While amnesia doesn't rob you of your emotions (quite the opposite, in fact, I imagine you'd be quite confused and scared among many other things) it would be hard to feel anything towards anyone who showed up from your past, and impossible to feel anything about something you don't remember hearing. The absence of feeling, that numbness, that silence…. Well, anyway, that was for just-in-case-you-were-wondering purposes!**

 **I'm going to be starting a "what if" fic for The Long Way Home pt. 1, probably Billy-centric, chock-full of whump for everyone, so keep your eyes peeled. Of course, the other guys will be there too. Okay enough with my blathering. Gosh, this note is going to end up longer than the chapter. Sorry, I'm distracted. I was just overdosing on new movie trailers…so…. bad YouTube, that's right, blame it all on YouTube. Bad, bad, bad, bad YouTube!**

 **Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own them. Nada. Non. Nein. Nyet. No. As in, N-O.**

 **On to the story! By the way, credit goes to Sgt. Saunders143 for editing the pic used for the cover of this fic. Awesome job, Sarge. Thanks so much for letting me use it!**

"W-what?" Saunders staggered, feeling Caje's grip loosen. The French man stumbled dizzily and landed half-sitting, half-laying on the snow. Sandy's anger began to mount, " _Who_ are you?"

Suddenly Auguste seemed aware of the fact that there were American soldiers running into the camp. They had succeeding in wiping out the German hold on the place. She gave a wistful look that said, 'well, not everything works out.' Instead of saying that, she spoke her last words with confidence as American rifles pointed at her from all directions, a direct and honest answer to Saunders's question. "I am German."

The pistol went off, and she collapsed to the ground, leaving Rossley standing there, the blood of two dead Germans dripping from him, staining the white snow scarlet.

* * *

"Sarge!" an oddly familiar voice reached his ears, and Saunders opened his eyes slowly. A man with short brown hair and a small, sturdy build stood next to a tall, honest-faced man, a shorter man who looked more like a kid, and next to him was a man wearing a medic's cross on his arm, with the clearest blue eyes you ever saw.

"Hiya." The Sergeant sat up. Having been given several days of R&R after being released from the field hospital, he had just been sleeping on his cot. He coughed quietly and looked up, "Kirby." The little man nodded. "Littlejohn, Billy…Doc." He glanced around, "Where are Caje and Rossley?"

Doc stepped forward, "Caje is resting at the hospital, they're going to release him tomorrow if he's doin' okay. Rossley said to say goodbye to you."

"Goodbye?"

"Yeah… he was pretty shaken up after that incident. He's been reassigned to a new unit. They're leaving in-" he glanced at his watch, "-three minutes. He told me not to tell you, but, well-" Doc gave a helpless looking smile. "Seeing you'd regained your memory after you were brought in, I think it mighta made him kinda sore. I think he misses the you… that _he_ knew."

Saunders nodded, understanding seeping into his features. He stood up, "Well, I hope you don't mind, I'm gonna go say goodbye to him before he shoves off," he gave Kirby a playful punch on the arm on the way past.

"Hey, Sarge," the Irishman grinned after him as he walked away, "meet any nurses over at that British hospital?"

"Oh, shut up Kirby."

* * *

"Rossley, hey Rossley!"

The medic glanced over his shoulder. He seemed surprised to see Saunders there.

"San- um, Saunders, what are you doing here?" his voice was soft.

"I came to say goodbye. I heard you're shipping off."

"Yes. I'm going to Italy. What about you?"

"I'll be here for the time being. It changes, one day to the next, you know?"

"Oh."

Saunders glanced at the sky. The clouds were still heavy, but now it seemed a beautiful thing.

"Well, see ya." Even though he knew it wasn't true, and probably never would be. The British man smiled.

"I'll see you..." He shook Saunders's hand and climbed onto the transport "…. Sandy."

The vehicle was almost out of sight when Saunders turned around. "Maybe someday."

He began to walk back, listening the crunch of frozen mud beneath his boots all the way.

"Just maybe."

Fin

 **And there you have it! I have had soooo much fun writing this, even if it was rather short. It actually surpasses the word count for The Color of War, even though that one had more chapters. Anyway, tell me what you think! I was going to kill off Rossley, but decided that was way too cruel, so instead I had Auguste commit suicide- plot twist!**

 **Thanks so much for all the support I've received on this fic, I've enjoyed every word, and I hope you have too. Till next time,**

 **Equine**


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